Safe With You

Beneath the Surface

~ Alyssa ~

It’s been a month since Mark was dragged bleeding from the steps of my company.

A month of pretending the world isn’t watching, that I can breathe again, that I’m safe.

And now, I’m sitting in AQ’s glass-walled boardroom, trying not to shatter all over again.

The city hums outside, sunlight spilling through the windows like nothing ever happened. Inside, the air feels thin. The detectives are here — three of them — notebooks open, voices calm and measured. But everything about this morning feels like standing on the edge of a cliff.

Greyson’s hand rests on my knee under the table. Triston sits beside me, silent and still, his jaw locked tight. Winston’s on the far side, elbows braced, face unreadable.

Detective Shaw flips through a file thick enough to choke a printer. “Thank you all for coming,” she says softly. “We know this isn’t easy.”

Her partner, a younger man named Hale, adds, “Mr.Hills hearing is confirmed for next month. He’s pled not guilty to all charges — including harassment, breach of bail, and assault.”

The word not guilty hits like a punch.

I knew he would. Mark’s ego wouldn’t allow anything else.

But hearing it out loud — in a boardroom that smells faintly of coffee and lavender cleaner — makes it real in a way I’m not ready for.

Shaw continues, “We’re going to prepare you for what to expect in court. We’ll need witness statements from all of you — Ms. Rose, Mr. Riley, Mr. Blake, and Mr. Walker — detailing the incident and any prior contact.”

I nod automatically, though my hands tremble under the table. “Of course.”

Hale shifts uncomfortably. “We’ve also uncovered… other material during our investigation. We’ll need to discuss it with you privately.”

My stomach twists. I know that tone. I’ve heard it before — in hospital corridors, in police stations, in whispered calls that changed everything.

The air leaves my lungs.

Greyson squeezes my knee. “It’s okay, Lyss,” he murmurs. “Whatever it is, we’ll handle it.”

But my pulse is already racing. I can’t handle it. Not again.

~ Flashback: Alyssa ~

The first time I realised Mark’s love came with conditions, it was raining.

We were standing in the kitchen of our old house — the one with the cracked tiles and the lemon tree in the garden.

I’d been late coming home from a meeting. My phone had died. He was waiting, hands white around a glass of whiskey.

“Where were you?”

“At the studio. I told you—”

“You told me you’d be home by six.”

His voice was calm. Too calm.

When I turned to set my bag down, the glass shattered against the wall beside my head. Whiskey splattered across the cupboards. I remember staring at it — the droplets sliding down like tears — and thinking he missed me on purpose.

He was still standing there, breathing hard.

Then he smiled. “Don’t make me worry like that again.”

That night, he bought me flowers. Lilies. My favourite.

By morning, I’d convinced myself it was love..

~ Present: Triston ~

Alyssa’s gone pale. Her hands twist in her lap, knuckles white. I know that look. It’s the same one she had the night she knocked.

“I need you " she’d whispered. “Please. Keep us safe..”

I didn’t ask questions — just drove.

Her eye was swollen. There was blood on her shirt — not hers.

Mark was gone.

She didn’t say much. Just kept whispering, “Don’t let him find me.”

That was almost eight years ago.

And now he’s sitting in a cell somewhere, claiming innocence, while she shakes in a boardroom because he’s still haunting her.

Detective Carter opens a folder and slides a few photos across the table. “We found a secondary phone in Carter’s apartment,” he says. “It contained recent surveillance — locations, timestamps. Photos of AQ’s exterior. Your vehicles.”

Alyssa’s breath catches. I see her fingers twitch, searching for air that won’t come.

Hale’s still talking. “There were also messages suggesting he intended to confront you again. He had lists — notes on staff schedules, security rotations, even names of your children.”

Greyson’s chair scrapes the floor as he stands abruptly. “Jesus Christ.”

“Greyson,” I warn quietly, but his chest is already rising fast.

Shaw lifts a hand. “He won’t get near her again, Mr. Riley. We’ve increased the restrictions. He’s remanded until trial.”

Alyssa’s eyes are glassy, unfocused. She’s somewhere else — trapped in a memory none of us can reach.

~ Flashback: Alyssa ~

The night I left, it was raining again. It always rains in endings.

He’d left. Emptied my bank, and left— I think. I remember the silence. I was covered in blood, bruised, broken, in so much physical pain I don't know how I did it.

I remember grabbing Quinn’s blanket and my sketchbook and running barefoot through the garden, heart pounding so hard I thought it would wake the dead.

I ran to Tristons house. Clutching Quinn to my chest. I don't know how long or how far I ran. I just knew I'd be safe there.

He didn’t ask questions, didn’t scold. He just took my keys, wrapped me in his jacket, and said, “You’re safe now. You're both safe. I've got you."

We drove for hours.

By the time the sun came up, we were at a small hotel near the coast. I’d never seen the sea before that day.

It was grey and endless, and for the first time in months, no one was yelling.

I cried until I couldn’t breathe.

Triston just sat there, holding Quinn, staring out the window.

~ Present: Greyson ~

I’ve heard every word these detectives said, but I stopped processing ten minutes ago.

Because all I can see is the way Alyssa’s breathing — shallow, quick, uneven — and the tremor in her hands.

I can’t sit here while they list every threat that man made. Every photo. Every plan. Every goddamn message.

So I stand, step outside, and press my palms against the cool glass of the hallway window.

The city sprawls beneath us, indifferent.

I try to breathe, but rage burns hotter than oxygen.

Triston joins me a minute later, his expression as wrecked as I feel.

“She’s breaking,” he says quietly.

“I know.”

“I want to kill him.”

I look at him then — really look — and realise we’re thinking the same thing.

“He’s already lost,” I say finally. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”

We stay out there until I can breathe without shaking. When we go back in, Alyssa’s sitting rigid, eyes fixed on the floor, Winston beside her like a statue.

~ Winston ~

I haven’t said a word. Not one.

Words are useless right now. They won’t undo what happened. Won’t make the images disappear — the lists, the threats, the photos.

The detective keeps talking about evidence, trial dates, cross-examinations, but all I hear is blood roaring in my ears.

They think this ends in a courtroom.

But I’ve seen what men like Mark Carter do when they lose control. They don’t stop. They don’t change. They rot quietly until they find another way to hurt you.

A plan starts forming before I even know it.

Not a conscious one — just a shape in the dark. A spark.

A flicker.

Justice will take months.

Rage only needs a moment.

~ Alyssa ~

Detective Shaw clears her throat. “Ms. Rose, you’ll be required to testify.”

The words blur. My chest tightens. The air thins to nothing.

I can’t — I can’t go back there. I can’t look at him. Not again.

Greyson’s voice cuts through the static. “She’s not doing this alone.”

“She’ll have full support,” Shaw assures. “A private entrance, protective detail, and counselling on-site. But it’s vital the jury hears her in her own words.”

I nod, though tears are already spilling down my cheeks.

“I can’t promise I won’t break,” I whisper.

“You already broke,” Greyson says softly, crouching beside me. “But you put yourself back together better than anyone I’ve ever met.”

That undoes me completely.

I fold into him, shaking, the sound that leaves me somewhere between a sob and a scream.

~ Flashback: Triston ~

The first week after she left, Alyssa wouldn’t speak.

She’d sit on the bed in that tiny hotel room, staring at the ocean with Quinn asleep beside her.

I’d try to get her to eat, to rest, to talk. Nothing worked.

Then one night, I found her sketching — rough lines, quick strokes, dresses that looked like armour.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Something strong,” she said quietly. “Something that doesn’t fall apart.”

That’s how AQ began.

Not from ambition — from survival.

Every stitch was a wound closed. Every design a way to keep breathing.

~ Present: Greyson ~

The meeting drags on for another hour.

By the time the detectives leave, Alyssa’s curled up on the sofa in my office, wrapped in one of my jackets, staring blankly at the skyline.

Triston’s pacing. Winston hasn’t moved in twenty minutes.

“They said he’ll try to discredit her,” Triston mutters. “Make her look unstable. Typical.”

I nod grimly. “Let him try. The world knows who she is now.”

Winston’s voice finally cuts through, low and calm. “People like him don’t stop because of courts.”

Triston looks over. “What are you saying?”

Winston’s gaze stays on the window. “I’m saying if the system fails… I won’t.”

There’s something dangerous in his tone — not loud, not dramatic, just cold.

A flicker of something I can’t name.

~ Alyssa ~

They think I don’t hear them whispering.

But I do.

I hear the anger, the quiet vows of protection, the scraping chairs and clenched fists.

And part of me wants to tell them it’s okay. That I don’t need saving.

But the truth?

I’m tired of surviving.

I want to live.

Greyson kneels in front of me again, thumb brushing away tears. “Hey,” he says softly. “Look at me.”

I do.

His eyes are steady. Grounding.

“You’ve already won,” he says. “He’s not taking another piece of you. Not ever again.”

I nod, though my throat burns. “I just want it to be over.”

He presses his forehead against mine. “It will be. One way or another.”

~ Winston ~

When the room empties, I stay behind.

The files are still on the table — photos, evidence, timelines. The mess he made of her life laid out in neat, official print.

I gather them up, sliding each page back into the folder.

Then I pause on one — a picture of Mark leaving court last week, smug despite the bruises.

A muscle jumps in my jaw.

There are rules for people like him.

And then there are men like me.

My reflection stares back from the glass — calm, cold, controlled.

Somewhere deep in the quiet, the spark ignites.

A flicker.

~ Alyssa ~

Later that night, long after the detectives have gone and the office lights are dim, I find Greyson standing on the balcony, staring at the skyline.

The wind’s cold, sharp.

He doesn’t hear me until I touch his arm.

“Can’t sleep?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Every time I close my eyes, I see him. Standing there. Smiling.”

I lean into him, resting my head on his shoulder. “He’ll be gone soon.”

He wraps an arm around me, pulling me close. “He already is,” he murmurs. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”

Below us in the garden, stands Winston.

Too calm. Too reserved. But very calculating.